


Half Formed Butterflies

by Mr_Snuffleupagus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, And Then Some, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Entomology, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gay, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build, Social Anxiety, Sociopathy, Top Dean, and then a lot more, gaaaaaaay, much like the fic's author, ultra gaaaaaaaay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Snuffleupagus/pseuds/Mr_Snuffleupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps there’s hope in resurrection.</p><p>Castiel, having lost all but his health, is not well prepared for the death of loved ones. As he grows colder and perhaps less human, will he be beyond all forms of redemption?</p><p>Enter stage left, a green eye barista who too knows of loss. Searching in all the wrong places for something to hold onto. The tumult of personal metamorphosis is just beginning.</p><p>Will Castiel and Dean emerge reborn, or be left crushed and disfigured, forever as nothing more than Half-Formed Butterflies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Formed Butterflies

 

Submission #4732 to the Collège international d'entomologie

 **AN ENTOMOLOGICAL INVESTIGATION OF METAMORPHIC PROCEDURE** – Andre C Baptiste

Animalia Arthropoda Insecta Lepidoptera Hesperiidae Erynnis Tristis

 

Dear Reader,

I regret to inform you that the metamorphosis of a butterfly is a foul and sordid event.  The transitional state bridging caterpillar to adult, lacks the elegance of latter and the resilience of the former.

For your consideration, I have attached below my observational notes and supplementary discourse examining the death, rebirth, and transmutation of the butterfly Erynnis tristis —a creature both mundane and repulsive in the extreme.

The transmutative episode has been divided into four phases of biological significance:

Sessility. Destruction. Maturation. Eclosure.

~~~

 ** _Tempus Mutationis_** : Sessility

 ** _Genus_** : Erynnis

 ** _Species_** : tristis

Sessility is the characteristic immobility.

One must not mistake this for a sign of stagnation. Despite its lack of external movement the pupa is undergoing immense transformation and reconstitution. The pupal chrysalis constructed by the caterpillar functions as both a form of physical protection and as a corporeal limit, demarcating the increasingly indistinct division between butterfly and outside world.

This initial sessility defines the beginning of metamorphosis, and plunges the caterpillar into a period of extreme vulnerability.

 

~~~

**Sessility**

Castiel never had many friends. The late Anna Milton and her daughter, the slightly-later Emily Milton, had been the only exceptions. Having been plucked from the world on the most unremarkable of spring afternoons, it wasn’t until later that same evening that Castiel learned about their head on collision.

They had intended on taking the long way home to see Emily’s new school. Emily would have likely pressed her large green eyes to the glass, and smeared small handprints on the windows of their old 1989 Toyota. She might have giggled at the bright rainbow-painted kindergarten sign, and kicked up the new shiny buckles of her shoes in delight. Had it not been for the slightly inebriate middle-aged man approaching in a white SUV, they might have gotten ice cream afterwards.

Needless to say, Emily didn’t make it to see the rainbow sign. She would never make it to her first day of kindergarten. Anna would never make it to her twenty-fifth birthday, and neither would make it through the next twenty five minutes, let alone to go get ice cream.

As with most evenings, Castiel had let himself in and was sitting quietly on the couch in Anna’s small one bedroom apartment. It was a humble dwelling, 20 square meters of bedroom-kitchen-bathroom. Still, it was home: home to Anna and Emily, and for the majority of waking hours, home to Castiel too.

At 4:26pm, Castiel sat on the familiar tea-stained sofa, avidly highlighting a print-out on the drosophila fruit fly. Nothing in the apartment would lead him to realise anything at all had just happened two miles away. The only sound occupying the room was the distant hum of a broken thermostat.

Suddenly, a brief gust of wind swirled through the room, disturbing the paper-mosaic wall of Anna’s thumbtacked autism spectrum thesis notes, and Emily’s crayon-coloured paper butterflies. The fluttering subsided almost immediately as it began. Without so much as a hum, Castiel returned to highlighting the page.

And just like that, the six years of Anna and Castiel’s friendship drew to a close.

~~~

Castiel and Anna had met at freshman orientation. Both budding scientists in an infamously liberal-arts-popular college, they were glued to each other from first contact.

Castiel had spent a large portion of the last couple of years with Anna in that apartment. Much of that time, Castiel recalled as a flurry of bloodshot, adrenaline fuelled lab reports. The rest of his time in the borrowed home was spent babysitting when Anna got night shifts bussing tables.

The latter had never bothered him. Little Emily was a girl after his own heart. She liked nothing more than to sit cross legged in the corner with a book, or to stretch out on the faded grey carpet and draw. So, the two would sit side by side, alternating between studying and doodling as they felt appropriate.  Sprawled sheets depicting butterflies, both anatomical print and crayon, bridged the 19 year age gap.

Butterflies were Emily’s heroin, and Castiel had been her dealer.

Having specialised into post grad entomology, much to Anna’s mock dismay, the biologist-turn-bug-freak, Castiel blurred the line between best friend, older brother, and paternal “bad influence”. Much of his spare time was spent with Emily, giving dynamic lectures on all creatures colourful and wing-ed.

It was a good six years.

~~~

**Thursday 10:37pm**

Castiel was roused by a knock at Anna’s door. It was the landlord.

Anna and Emily were dead.

~~~

**Friday 3:42pm**

Anna’s landlord, a heavy-browed and short-tempered Italian man, tapped his foot impatiently while waiting for Castiel to open the door to his apartment. The man had wasted minimal time clearing out Anna’s room for new tenants, and had driven its contents over to Castiel’s. Between the two of them, Anna and Emily had possessed no more than a large cardboard box of possessions.

Castiel’s bed springs squeaked uncomfortably under the weight of the box.

Here they were, the past six years of Castiel’s life— of their shared life. The time sat before him in the form of brown cardboard, chicken-scratch notes, crudely cut paper butterflies, and lilac paint chips through a tear in its side. The landlord briefly mentioned that he had given their clothing to a local charity. Castiel didn’t press the matter.

Anna and Emily had no next of kin.

Castiel stared at the box. It sat a yard away from him on the bed. Still. Dead.

After some time he reached to examine what he could see to be the top of a glass jar. The mattress, sensing the break in stillness, shifted uneasily. The box trembled. A splay of lilac peppered Castiel’s taupe blanket. He instinctively froze and tried not to think about the contents. _Anna_.

As he internally regained composure, Castiel edged forward again, to be greeted by another outpouring of dried paint and paper. The crate seemed determined to disintegrate before he could close the distance between them. Every inch he shifted tore the thin cardboard further and powdered his bed the colour of the newly uninhabited apartment 5 minutes away. Castiel, creeping closer, heard a faint tearing noise. The top the jar fell half an inch. _Emily!_

The small motion alone was enough to startle Castiel. He sucked in a gasp and vowed not to move, lest the box break further.

So he sat. And stared. Not moving. Not breathing. Just staring.

The wind rattled a window out in the kitchen. The thermostat by the door buzzed its ineffectual buzz. The room was in closest thing to silence that a twenty three year old entomology student could afford. Castiel could hear his heart beating, a minor headache pulsing, and an alien plinking noise. _Anna_. _Emily._

Breathing out quietly, Castiel’s brow furrowed deep ridges as he looked around for the sound’s source. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once: the box, the kitchen, the dusty cabinet across the room. The subdued pulsing in his head was beginning to rise to a wash of sound like running water. _Anna_. _Emily_. _Anna_. Meanwhile Castiel’s eyes narrowed as they darted around the room.

He looked up. A small dark brown moth was flying head first into the naked bulb above his bed. It plinked furiously, perhaps trying to enter the bulb. _Anna. Emily. Anna_. _No. shush. Moth._

 _Biston betularia_. The peppered moth. It usually didn’t stray this far into the urban world. Castiel began to watch, but perhaps aware of the cold blue-grey eyes boring into it, the moth flitted out of the room towards the kitchen. _Emily. Anna. Car-crash_.

The washing sound, previously localised to his temples, had grown to encompass his entire skull. _Emily. Anna. Dead. Emily. Crash_. His head felt like a mighty library in an earthquake, words, images, memories, flipping open, bumping against each other as they fell. _Crash. Dead. Died. Anna. Dead._ He tried to steady his head with his hands, tried not to tilt.

 _A distraction_. He needed a distraction. Dragging himself gently to his feet, he set off. To the fridge. _Anna_. Picked up the first thing he saw. A carton of ice-cream. Mixed berry. Emily’s favourite. _Emily_. _Anna. Crash_. Castiel’s hand. Shaking as he fumbled to open the lid. Not noticing the expiry date.

Box was shaking. _Anna_. He ate some of the ice-cream—tried to taste it—tried to focus on the coolness, the texture, the flavour—tried not to think about cars, tried not to think about crashes. _Ice-cream. Iced. Cream. Pink. Taste pink_. _Little bits of frozen raspberry. Ice-cream. Cream. Milk. Cows._ Castiel’s full body began to shiver. _Anna_. He wasn’t cold— _Emily_ — but he began to shiver.

 _Anna. Emily. Anna. Emily. Dead. Not alive. They. But. Dead_.

The thought was literally incomprehensible. They couldn’t be dead, they just didn’t _feel_ dead. They were just out. But. Dead though, Dead? No. No that’s ridiculous. Yes. But why would the land lord lie about something like that? No. Stranger things have happened, right! Yes. Really, it was probably just some fucked up joke. No. People tell jokes that are in bad taste all the time, maybe thousands of times in their life. Yes. But people only die once. No. So the probability of someone dying on a random day is really low. So the probability of two people dying on one particular random day is impossibly low, much lower than someone telling an awful joke.

Castiel’s spoon began to scrape against the plastic on the bottom of the carton.

No. He was just getting worked up. Balance of probability said that Anna and Emily weren’t dead.  The landlord was joking. It was all some bad-taste joke. Castiel tore at his pocket for his phone, and with shaking hands keyed in to call Anna’s cell phone.

As the phone dialled, Castiel looked around for where he’d put down the ice-cream. _Fuck_. He’d dropped it. _Fuck_. It was all over the floor. Where had he put the spoon? Had he even gotten a spoon to begin with? How had he been— The phone began to dial and ring

As his breathing got more are more frantic— _Ring—_ Castiel’s eyes ran laps around the kitchen. _Ring_. No. No it wasn’t. _Ring_. No they couldn’t be. _Ring_. Pick up. _Ring_. Anna. Emily. Crash. Car. _Ring_. Pickuppickupickupickupickupickup. _Ring_. As the phone rang its eighth time, Castiel felt something wet drip down from his ear to his wrist. Wet. Cold. Red. Chunks of raspberry. Smeared down the side of his phone and fingers.

“Heya, sorry I couldn’t receive your call I’m probably out with my beautiful—” a familiar, high, tinny voice interrupted “ _ARE YOU TALKING TO UNCLE CASSIE?”_

“No honey I’m jurrfffggkkkkcekaak.” The phone buzzed a gurgling whine as a cold, pink, blob coasted down into the ear piece.

Oh fuck. Dead. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She was dead. They were dead. Fuck. Dead. Castiel knew it. They were dead and they had crashed and were dead. And he was here, but he should have gone with Anna instead of staying home. And they’re dead. But no. what? No. Dead. They couldn’t be dead. No no no no. Not dead. No, not dead.

Suddenly on his bed. Heart pounding, leaping up into his throat. Hands on his head, running wild-berry through his dark hair.

Castiel’s breathing grew to a full body quiver as all the light seemed to be sucked out of the world. The room began to spin. Grey wallpaper spiralled into the door. Crashed over the carpet.

Breathing faster than his body could handle, Castiel’s head landed square in the middle of his pillow as he fell. Unconscious.

~~~

 

**Friday 2:20pm**

Castiel awoke the next day in a slow but definite manner. In doing so, he found himself in a world that felt heavy, as though his water marked ceiling might rush to meet the end of his nose. The unsettling brightness, which poured through the curtains, purged the room with a burning haze.

That was all Castiel had to say about the day which greeted him. That was all Castiel had to say about the events of yesterday, the crash, and the world in its current Anna-Emily-less state. _No_.

He rolled back to greet the pillow.

~~~

**Saturday**

~~~

**Sunday**

Castiel didn’t attend the burial.

~~~

**Monday 10:41pm**

Castiel didn’t dream. There was no brief respite, no serene moment of waking in which the world was familiar and safe. There was no _and then he remembered_. When Castiel woke, he was in no state of illusion. Anna and Emily were still dead. He was still alive.

He sucked in long, languid breaths, pulling the greyness of the room into his lungs.

That box at the foot of his bed was all that was left of Anna and Emily. He was all that was left of Castiel.

He rolled back over.

~~~

**Tuesday 11:57pm**

Castiel awoke on his front, a pain in his neck, and a grazed knuckle folded back onto his faded carpet.

 _Better pull your arm up Uncle Cassie, otherwise the monsters will grab it_ , he mused, allowing his hand to linger in the darkness under his bed.

The crash had happened a few days before spring break, so Castiel had no need to study today. Castiel had no need to go into college today either, whatever day today was. Castiel saw insufficient reason to get out of bed. So Castiel didn’t.

He’d gone to the bathroom twice today, though he hadn’t eaten anything since before the crash. That was on Tuesday. _Today it’s_ … Castiel’s eyes twisted around the various indiscriminate forms of his darkened room. Having surveyed absolutely nothing of interest, he concluded it might be Sunday. He was wrong.

He slept.

                                                                                     ~~~

Castiel hadn’t felt hunger in a while. He had no desire, no deep plunging dagger of appetite. Nothing.

Numbed by continuous slumber, Castiel suspected that his body probably was experiencing some form of physical starvation. He lacked the capacity to care at this point. The cardboard box on the end of the bed might have contained some Maslow-heavy essay reprimanding him, or perhaps warning him of the manifestation of something darker. But Anna wasn’t there, there was just essays, some odds-and-ends, and an army of crayon butterflies.

Castiel’s stomach gurgled miserably. He likely needed to eat something. However that would require leaving his bed.

It was simply a trade-off. Under his grey striped comforter there was no death, no time. There nothing but sleep and awake. While Castiel remained in his bed, in the moderate comfort of student bought linen, he existed outside of time, feeling out a space in his mind. Moulding his emotional vacuum into a three dimensional cocoon.

His stomach gurgled again. Castiel considered the ramifications of starvaing. In his game of waking oblivion and the unconscious void, he was king. Every corner of his mind-cocoon was his.  Castiel was in control. Starvation, however, threatened to take him as prisoner. He would no longer be skipping along the tightrope of sleep and wake. He would simply fall into the chasm.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Castiel let two stale slices of bread flake off onto his tongue and powder the roof of his mouth. He drank a cup of milk and then returned to bed.

No one came to check up on him.

He didn’t know anyone. Anywhere.

~~~

For reasons he didn’t quite understand Castiel felt himself re-enter the world an immeasurable time later. His teeth felt no longer his own, all fuzzy and gummed, and his back and arms were sore and stiff. This skin of his face and back had sprouted a few uncomfortable blemishes. He needed a shower.

A thick steam filled the shower and drew Castiel in as he slipped off his dirty boxer briefs and spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the basin. As the glass door clacked shut behind him. He caught his reflection and smirked, assessing the week old stubble and blood shot eyes before him.

It was only as he washed off what amounted to approximately six days in bed, that the sharp end of hunger drove itself into Castiel’s abdomen. He steadied himself against the tiled wall of the shower, feeling the room threatening to start spinning. He needed food.

In the kitchen, Castiel found the fridge hanging open and a small puddle of water on the ground. The refrigerator temperature warning had grown from its alarmed beeping to an indifferent moan.

Castiel hypothesised that most of his food would have gone rancid or mouldy.

He was correct.

 

~~~

At around 1:40 am Castiel had found himself meandering aimlessly though back alleys, when it begun to rain.

The deluge came from nowhere, leaving him stranded under the red and white painted iron canopy of a hole-in-the-wall florist. Two grey high-rises loomed overhead from both sides.

At first the rain fell as wet streaks of silver, ambling towards the ground, wisping over each other.

A distant cracking and rumbling was heard as the sky opened a little more. This gave way to the second wave, more determined on falling face first to the ground. It wasn’t long until a mist climbed its way up the nearby street lamp. The metal canopy plinked and the street rang.

Against the steel-blue cityscape, a small brown moth caught Castiel’s attention. Upside down, hanging dry on the plastic underside of the streetlamp. The moth flapped its wings, prepared for flight, and then settled back on the light. It seemed to become airborne, then immediately forget why it had contemplated leaving its dry sanctuary. The moth was smart, unknowingly extending its life by perhaps another minute.

 _Well_ , Castiel reminded himself, _as smart as a moth can be_. Moths lacking a developed cerebral cortex had no understanding of mortality. Moths were pretty much squishy robots, seeking food, shelter, and sex.

 _Hmmm_. Maybe moths were smarter than Castiel had thought.

The lamp flickered out. Suddenly, running. Panting. Rapid footfalls. The squelching of wets socks in boots. A stranger ran around the corner. As he sprinted, the stranger rattled with the sound of car keys somewhere under his worn leather jacket. His stark green eyes flashed goldas they locked onto the florist’s shelter.

As he approached, he ran with the manic look of one running with complete abandon. Castiel looked on with unwavering stillness as he drew closer.

The man greeted Castiel with a polite grin and a salutatory nod. Castiel responded with the same. Unlike Castiel’s, the stranger’s smile remained on his face. It bulged strongly in his checks and wrinkled in his eyes.

The two stood side by side, a foot apart, both looking out into the grey abyss. The rain now fell like a wall, carving out a rectangle of false intimacy.

The drilling overhead became severe, growing tinnier and more     deafening, until— _crack_. Under the weight of the sagging canopy some old spouting snapped off and rainwater spilled out directly against the front door. Castiel and the stranger reflexively jumped towards the centre of their island and turned towards the closest stream, bumping shoulders. They turned to face each other. The sudden proximity burned. Noses only inches away, Castiel stared at the strangers face.

There was amber in the centre of the stranger’s irises and freckles on his nose and cheeks. Both the flecks of gold and the spots of skin pigmentation bore no discernible pattern— less like a ladybug, more like the night sky. Realising that he was staring, Castiel notably tensed.

“I’m sorry.” He rasped. The slumber on his voice, still audible like gravel.

The stranger laughed and turned back to face the night, his shoulder still pressed, burning against Castiel’s.

They stood for some time before the rain died down to a slight drizzle. Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, the man turned to Castiel, beamed an ear-to-ear grin, and ran off down the street, across the road, and into a corner café. Castiel was surprised. He hadn’t noticed the café during the torrent, but now, the yellow-orange light pouring out of its windows onto the street screamed like some glowing sea siren. The streams of light cast out onto the road seduced with a song of warmth and nourishment.

Castiel lingered on the temptation. Even in his absence, the man’s musk lingered, spiralling behind him. Damp leather, whisky, and the traces of long lost whips of smoke, both sweet and acrid. Much to Castiel’s horror in response to the previous warmth on his shoulder, he felt a warmth developing between his legs.

Castiel’s stomach rumbled, reiterating a completely different hunger.

Before leaving his island, Castiel turned to the street lamp. It once again was radiating its cool, blue-white glow, but the moth was nowhere to be seen. It had evidently decided to leave, been struck down by a silver bullet, and fallen into the dark, undiscernible grey of wet pavement.

Castiel stood for a bit trying to find the moth. He eventually gave up and left.

As he walked through the mist towards the café, Castiel wondered if it hurt, being crushed by the falling sky.

 _No_ , Castiel reminded himself, _only moths are crushed by the sky, and moths aren’t smart enough to feel._

~~~

The door to the Javawocky Café clipped quietly shut as Castiel pushed it closed against the wind.

“Have fun.” A perky redhead hung up a wrinkled apron that was the colour of under-ripe olives. “Be careful not to wear yourself out on _all of these customers!_ ” She shouted, comically craning her neck around the empty room. “OH!” She stiffened slightly at the sight of Castiel, faux pas written across her face.

Internal sigh. Not-so-internal cringe. Done.

She rolled her eyes at herself and chuckled pleasantly, composure returned. She smiled at Castiel as she passed on exit. The hanging doorbell clanged clumsily behind her.

The café seemed to be the sort of building that had been a thousand things before a café. A large hair salon, a failing Laundromat, a Vietnamese grocery store.

The deep burgundy wall paint, though by no means new, had an air of violent optimism about it. From the yellow floor and mid-wall tiling on the opposite wall, to the row of small figurines atop of the baked-goods display case, the café reeked of the same awkward pep which had rolled off of the redhead. Even the wall to Castiel’s right, lined to the ceiling with reused planks of wood housing thousands of donated books, aged and in no discernible order, bore a strange, hopeful positivity. Against the grey drawl of the outside weather, which had once again grown progressively worse, the café looked almost a tad ridiculous. _Surely_ no human was as pleasant as this café endeavoured to be.

Approaching the counter, Castiel took a closer look at the man. Under the warm indoor fluorescents the stranger was impressively dry for someone who had been running through the rain. Still, his black shirt, damp, clung to his chest indicating a physique which told equal parts acquired strength and recent neglect.

The man had an appearance like mid-autumn: warm smile, yet hard jaw. Where a scatter of stubble finished, a splay of brown freckles began, starting at his cheeks and arching over his nose. It was a good face, an earnestly masculine face, but not at all an unfriendly one— mid-twenties, flawless complexion, crow’s feet already clawing at his eyes from more-than-one too many squinting smiles.

 Castiel noticed himself staring and looked down.

Via unapologetically elegant wrists, the man’s large, rough hands became thick arms, which in turn met shoulders that rose and fell like mighty— _noooooope, fuck_. Mr hands-arms-and-shoulders had asked Castiel a question.

Words. Conversation. Sentences.

The sudden interaction jarred Castiel’s brain back into action. He took a moment to try replay the past ten seconds in his head to pinpoint the question.

“So what can I do you for?”

Perhaps it was the hour, perhaps the recent exhausting abundance of sleep, but Castiel couldn’t find the man’s meaning. It seemed, by sheer coincidence, in his 23 years, Castiel had evaded this idiom. ‘ _So_ _what can I do you for?_ ’ In the silence that ensued, Castiel could not for the life of him decipher its meaning. _Do me, for? do me? For? DO ME!? No… he means… no—DO ME?!_

“Co-coffee. I want coffee…” The barista had successfully lit twin fires under Castiel’s cheeks.

“Thank God! Here was I thinking you’d come for investment advice.” The man chuckled at his joke. It was a good chuckle Castiel decided, rumbling, but sincere. “Anything specific in mind?”

Castiel had never been part of the zombie masses at college with coffee as a blood type. In fact, the only time he’d ever personally drunken coffee was when he and Anna had be cramming in freshman year. Nevertheless he liked coffee; it was warm, and sweet, and creamy. He liked the way it felt warming his throat on the way down, the woman behind the counter had even put marshmallows in it for Castiel and winked at him, while Anna was trying to find a table.

 The man stood in content silence. Castiel found himself staring at the man again—all rain dampened and dark denim— Oh yes, the man was waiting for a reply.

Castiel scanned the chalk menu above the man’s head, trawling through the pleasant powdery depictions of mugs and biscuits, and words for drinks he’d never heard of. Americano. _That’s a coffee, right?_ The picture to the right of the size pricings looked like a coffee.

Castiel’s mind flitted through the archaeological fragments of his remaining high school Spanish.

_Americano means American. I am American. Americano means American so I should order it, because I too am an American. Good. Yes. That makes sense to me._

“One Americano please.”

The man raised an eyebrow and stared at Castiel for a second. It felt like a year. The man’s forest green eyes were speckled with flecks of gold and amber near the centre. The spots kind of remind Castiel of golden tortoise beetles. He liked that bug, it was small, fragile, but exquisite. The flecks of gold looked like delicately placed stars.

Finally the puzzled barista broke the silence.

“Uh, sure… I’ll—umm—bring it to you it to you in a sec.” The sentence hung in the air like a question, but the man turned to busy himself with an outlandish metal contraption which hissed steam.

Castiel wandered across the room, finding a comfortable looking booth about halfway down the wall across from the door. He watched the rain run down the window while his coffee was being made. Castiel, busied himself, passing time hypothesising which water droplets would reach the sill fastest, judging by size, and initial speed. He jumped slightly as the barista approached.

“One Americano. Do you mind if I join you?”  The man stood awkwardly, one arm twisted behind his back.

Castiel flicked his head, gesturing to the opposite chair. The man obviously had nothing better to do, sipping away at a fifth of whiskey, having wiped down every possible surface in the dinky corner café. Still standing, the man seemed to be waiting for something. _Odd_. Castiel paid it no mind.

He raised the mug to his lips. This didn’t smell like the coffee Anna had once ordered form him. This didn’t smell like that coffee _at all_. Castiel contemplated saying something, but had no intention of seeming rude, also he remembered Anna once complaining about a tea of hers tasting nothing like it had smelled. Perhaps coffee was the same.

He endeavoured onward. Eyes closed, praying it tasted better than it smelt, Castiel tipped the cup with all the courage he could muster— _what the actual god forsaken fuck_!

Castiel was greeted with the most bitter, biting, stabbing, onslaught of flavour. It tasted like the gustatory combination of sorrow, hatred, and all that was wrong with the world.

Castiel choked on the mouthful but forced himself to swallow. The barista laughed.

“Yeah, I hadn’t pegged you as a coffee person.” He then proceeded to bring forth the cup hidden behind his back and place it in front of Castiel. “Try this.”

“How did you know t— Oh… Oh yes… this is the coffee I wanted.” The smell met Castiel like an old friend, sugar-sweet curls of steam rising to meet his coarse, stubbly face. He immediately drew the mug to his lips and gulped some down. He let his tongue loll around in the indulgent, rich, beauty of it all.

“That good sir is a ‘ _Hot Chocolate’_ , pink marshmallows and all. You may wanna consider trying that next time before going all gung-ho caffeine ninja”

“Thank you. I will next time.”

The man nodded thoughtfully before finally taking his seat. Maybe it was the way his head hung forward slightly as he gazed down into his whisky tumbler, or how all of his gestures dragged in unconcerned and languid motions, but Castiel felt comfortable with this man.

Neither spoke for a while, which Castiel appreciated immensely at first, sucking back his cup of warm chocolaty nectar. The man seemed content in silence, which despite being pleasantly non-confrontational began to make an unplaceable part of Castiel squirm.

Maybe it was the deep wrinkles of his work shirt, the pink of his lips, or his persisting bed-hair, that gave the man a sort of gravitational pull of familiarity. The stranger’s very presence conjured to mind Sunday napping, long showers, and old time-softened pillows. Castiel was beginning to very much dislike the silence. With only the scratching of the rain on the window and wind-pushed scraping of a small potted shrub outside against the glass, the wordless abyss they shared felt strangely intimate. The unverbalised acceptance of strangerdom sat at odds with the comfort of their silence.

“How did you know I wouldn’t like coffee?”

“Coffee-making’s the family business. You pick up a thing or two.” The man shone a wide grin. “So what brings you to the Javawocky Café?”

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

“Same.”

“Aren’t you working here?”

“Hence, I couldn’t sleep.” The man sniffed at his own joke. Castiel didn’t.

The conversation tip toed along a reasonable pathway for post-midnight coffee shop talk. Coffee. The wall of books. Tales of customers to make skin crawl. The frequently repeated anecdotes of one in customer service.

“Girlfriend?” Castiel’s eyes darted to the door that had rung closed some 10 minutes ago.

“Oh Charlie?” the man laughed “Yeah, we’re um, not exactly compatible.” Castiel tried to quell the slight flutter of hope in his stomach. “Actually, I know for a fact that I’m not her… _type_.” He gave what Castiel assumed was meant to be a _knowing_ eyebrow wiggle. “Such a loss. If she’d have me, I would marry her on the spot; she sometimes bakes these mini pies for the morning brunchers before she leaves. They are the best thing you will _ever_ taste. D’you want one?”

Castiel declined the offer. But immediately regretted it as the man took on the face of a kicked puppy. Pie was definitely a topic to remember for later lulls in conversation.

The silence was broken by the man humming as he noticed his glass was empty. He ambled to the counter and returned with the bottle to top up his whiskey. He tipped the bottle slightly towards Castiel and raised an eyebrow. Castiel shrugged slightly and shook his head.

“To each their own,” he nodded.  “So what do you do, sir?”

 “I’m a student. Post-grad entomology.” Before the man could raise an eyebrow Castiel habitually added, “I study bugs. I know most people don’t—”

“Bug-boy— it’s cool. I get it. I imagine you’re used to people being grossed out by that? So what’d your friends say when you said you wanted to study bugs?”

“I would rather not talk about that.”

 “Oh. Um. That’s cool,” The man pleasantly paused for a moment, evidently seeing if he could glean any information from Castiel’s face. “What do you wanna talk about? The weather?” he jostled, hoping to conjure a smile.

“It’s not very good.”

“Family?”

“I was kicked out when I was seventeen.”

The barista’s posture became notably more slumped at that. Castiel was not oblivious to how the man stooped the few inches he held above Castiel, so that their eyes matched level. Much like one does to befriend frightened animals or to console gloomy children.

“Guessin’ you don’t wanna talk about that?” Castiel’s brow furrowed at the sincerity of the man’s concern.

“Correct.”

An aggressively loud pause followed, punctuated only by the rain which had risen to a gale, and the angered thwacking of the small untrimmed shrub. The barista sipped from his glass.

 _Well,_ Castiel Pondered, _Conversations require both parties to be presenting possible alleys of dialogue_. The barista’s concern had grown dangerously close to emotionally intimate.

“So, do you happen to have a name?” Castiel challenged.

“Dean Winchester. You?”

“Castiel.”

“A last name to accompany that?”

“For legal purposes, Novak.” Castiel sighed “But for obvious reasons, I’m not overly a fan.”

“Feel free to take Winchester if you want.” Castiel raised a brow at that. “No I meant— It was a joke meaning—”

Castiel relished Dean’s fluster.

“… Well, I suppose if you did want to take Winchester, my name would probably need some wining and dining first.” Dean smirked, as though his response had been sufficiently witty to hide the increasingly present twist of whiskey on his words.

It hadn’t.

“Anyone else with the name. Family?” Castiel was clutching for topics, doing anything to keep the focus off himself and to keep Dean talking. He was growing to like the way the barista’s voice sounded. He enjoyed the way Dean’s teeth dug ever-so-slightly into his bottom lip when he was trying to find something smart to say.

“Mum bit it when I was four. Haven’t seen dad since I was sixteen— probably drowning in booze and piss in some shitty ditch somewhere.”

An irate vein pulsed silently on the back of Dean’s hand. Castiel wonder what Dean’ skin felt like. The barista’s eyebrows webbed together for a moment, and Castiel may have seen pain in his eyes. Maybe not.

After a beat, Dean added “So yeah… them’s the folks.” He let out a shallow chuckled.

“Siblings?”

Dean’s eyes lit up, his posture suddenly upright and reinvigorated.

“Yeah, I have this little brother Sammy, you two would get along really well, he—” a beat of silence. “Had.” Another beat. “I… _h_ ada little brother _._ **”** His forest green eyes grew cold and fell to his drink.

Castiel immediately recognised that look. The two took a long sip from their respective beverages.

“What happened?”

“I came home one night. He was strung from the banners.” Dean’s face grew dark and pensive for a moment. Silence, then Dean nodded in respect and took another sip.

“I’m sorry. That’s hard... Losing someone like that… When?”

“Last year.” Sip.

“I recently lost loved ones.” Castiel mumbled. Dean met his gaze for the first time in what seemed like forever. “Car accident,” he added. Dean offered another nod.

“Shit man, you ok? That’s rough.”

“Yes… It is rough.”

The conversation then reverted to the obligatory: Dean working at the café, Castiel studying bugs, Castiel as a lab technician assistant for the bio department, an unflattering CV buffer consisting of hours mixing agar and diluting solutions. Castiel didn’t have to show up for the next few weeks until the summer research fellows and their hordes of bright-eye baby scientist interns went back.

Dean. Dean had contemplated getting training as a mechanic, but with his propensity towards angering his superiors (due to a habit of knowing more than them), his apprenticeships never seemed to last full term. No, he’d never been one for “all that _fancy book learning”_ , Dean chuckled.

Though, Dean admitted with the slight hint of a whiskey-slur, his brother Sam was a champ at the whole _School_ thing.

“He could have been a lawyer, he had straight A’s and everything.”

Castiel managed to glean that Sammy had been applying for law school.

“The worst bit was,” Dean’s voice growing suddenly doleful, “I saw it. I saw it in his eyes, I saw it and it was dark. I saw it and I did nothing. _Watch out for Sammy, Dean. Look after your brother, Dean_.” His green eyes traced dirty grout lines in the yellow wall tiling which met the table’s edge.

Once again, Castiel was taken aback by the sudden dam-burst of emotion. Uncertain of how to proceed, head cocked slightly to the right, he just stared at Dean. Castiel’s cold calculating eyes took in the slight quiver which ran from Dean’s pink lips, up his freckled cheeks, and stopped, knitting his eyebrows together for a moment.

Though it was only a small motion, Castiel noticed Dean drive a short sharp fist into his thigh under the table, as he cleared his throat.

“Yeah, sorry. That’s, Yep. Oof, what time is it?”

Castiel fumbled for his phone but realised it hadn’t left his apartment. In the meantime Dean had eyed the wall clock in a bookcase square across the room.

“4:50. Urgh. Heads up, the pre- _morning-rush_ -rush will hit in about half an hour.” His forehead hit the table in a mixture of equal parts intoxication, and exhaustion.

“I should be going.”

Dean’s head rose, his mouth twisted into a sort of melancholy grin.

“Maybe I’ll see you ‘round some time Cas.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel smirked. “Good morning Dean Winchester.”

Castiel contemplated patting the, now rather inebriated, man on the back.

He didn’t though.

~~~

When Castiel returned home he kicked his shoes off into a mess on the floor. He collapsed onto his bed, an awkward mattress spring probing a rib.

He was tired again. Already.

Before he let himself taste the sweet oblivion of his pillow, Castiel rummaged a hand down the side of his mattress until he found his phone. Flicking it to the home screen he saw an old unread text from days earlier.

               **Anna Milton. Received: Thursday 3:31pm**

 _NOOOOOOOPE_. A wise part of Castiel was highly aware that it were better to deal with that situation later. He laid his phone down on the bedside table next to Emily’s large Mason jar.

Despite Castiel knowing better, the stillness in the jar seemed to suggest barrenness and death. Some comically unnecessary memento mori. A handful of grass. A twig with two browning leaves jutting in either direction. A small bud of green. _Of course_. Hooked daringly onto the end of the twig was the recently formed chrysalis of a caterpillar Emily had adopted. _Emily_.

It was strange, though it had been only a few days, the crash felt like an eternity ago, another world. Castiel had already lived so long without his two best friends that, looking down at the small oval fingerprints on the Mason jar, the glass seemed like some morbid mirror into the past. Castiel felt as though, if he were to look through the glass at just the right angle, he might see a small freckled hand still pressing those fingerprints. A small freckled hand attached to a small freckled girl asking whether it was a boy caterpillar or a girl caterpillar.

 As Castiel held the jar he was aware that in some strange way Emily was too. Not there or then, not in any sense of the now, but in a different point in time and space, distant but still philosophically simultaneous.

This thought was ridiculous and farther down the alley of abstract philosophy than most entomologists dare tread. It made Castiel uncomfortable and uncertain of what on earth he was doing. He put the jar back down, turned off the light, and went back to sleep.

That night he dreamt of drowning in a pool of pink marshmallows.

It was a strange dream.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All improvements for writing greatly appreciated.  
> I promise I am not nearly as pretentious as my shitty fic seems to be.  
> Please love me.
> 
> PS I am EXACTLY as pretentious as my shitty fic seems to be.


End file.
